


Casts No Shadow

by Ladycat



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dark, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Post-Season 2, Pre-Slash, Violence, sub!derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-01
Updated: 2012-10-01
Packaged: 2017-11-15 10:32:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/526331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No on realizes how much anger is in Stiles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Casts No Shadow

**Author's Note:**

> Contains some unhealthy violence bordering on domestic abuse. If this is something that triggers you, please don't read.

Derek was so young after the fire. Living in New York helped with some of it but inside he was just _young_ , broken and aching because he did this to his family. It was his fault and his responsibility. He has Laura, of course, and she does what she can for him. Only what he wants is something Laura can't give because she's his sister; because he's all she has, too.

She can't punish him. She can't help him offer penance for this horrible thing he has done (even if he didn't, and that's a thought he can't touch no matter how Laura whispers _fifteen_ and _too young_. It's what he’ll hear later when he looks at Stiles).

*

No one realizes how much anger is within Stiles. Frustration and discontent swirl around the constant miasma that is being sixteen and inexplicably part of something, so fucking important to it that he is often _key_ in ways that have nothing to do with claws that can only rend and teeth that can only bite at problems that can be solved with neither—and yet not. Not really. 

He isn't pack. He isn't born into a family that howls at the moon. He's just a boy, lonely and cut off from friends that are slowly pairing up and a father he lies to over and over. And the lying shouldn’t be so much of a problem, right? He is a sixteen year old boy. They lie to their fathers. Stiles has done so for years, until he’s good at it; practiced and easy.

Only none of those other times made his father look at him with sadness in his eyes, thorns growing thickly in the distance between them.

Stiles _hates_ that. 

Derek isn't the cause or even the result but one day Stiles can't keep the mask up. He _aches_ , dammit, and Scott is of course trying to give Allison space by hovering around her like a giant creeper. The Derek method of meet'n'greet is not really what Stiles would call smooth, but he knows better than to think it won't work. He knows because he sees Derek sometimes—or more accurately the evidence that Derek has been around his house, his window. Once in his room, the bed rumpled in ways it wasn't that morning.

He isn’t sure what it means. Exactly. But he knows each flash of movement out of the corner of his eye, each carefully laid bit of evidence—and it is carefully laid, it has to be—stokes a fire in his belly that he can’t explain, a tension in his shoulders that makes him feel sick and used and _hungry_.

The decision comes out of nowhere. Stiles tries to organize his slights even as he climbs into the car and drives too fast. He has a list; or had. As he takes the turns too fast and guns the jeep too hard, all he can think is that he wants to see Derek. To yell at someone (for _reasons_ ) at someone who will stand still and take it. And Derek will. There will be eye rolls and scowls, maybe even some of the too-rare smirks Stiles finds he’s counting. But Derek is the only one Stiles is positive will allow this. It can’t be Scott, who doesn’t know. He was _there_ and he doesn’t know and Stiles’ anger burns white behind his eyes. 

Scott doesn't know what Gerard did with him. He pulled that trick, that stupidly brilliant trick that _worked_ , without talking to him, Stiles. The best friend.

Maybe he isn’t. From Stiles position in the front of a lonely car, he doesn’t have anyone at all.

Just like Derek.

Stiles drives with his hands white knuckled on the wheel, muttering words he doesn't measure to the strident beat of Metallica. The music of the angry and the frustrated. He doesn't question his decision to head up to the Hale house. That's home and safety no matter how it's full of ash and broken memories. Those are familiar things and this newly lost Derek—he’ll want familiar.

Just like Stiles. Normally.

Derek's Camaro is in the driveway. Stiles parks behind it and tumbles out. He lost whatever grace he'd found on the field a few days ago, pacing his room and glaring at a carpet that grew worn under his steps. So _angry_. The cost is so fucking much and Stiles doesn't want to pay it anymore. He doesn’t.

His feet move without conscious command, heading towards the remains of the garden behind the house. Stiles only saw it once but somehow he knows Derek is there. Just like Derek has to know he’s here: the roar of the jeep and the thunder of his heart are only two of the most obvious clues. 

Derek sits next to the twisted, thorny remains of what was once a rose bush. He isn't moving, eyes half closed and seemingly peaceful. Like he's waiting. Like he's suddenly ok with everything that happened, with all the fucked up mess _he made_ —can't blame Peter for this one, oh no—and something inside of Stiles breaks.

He doesn't realize just how badly until Derek is sprawled messily among the burnt remains of thorny bushes, head turned away.

There’s a red mark low near his jaw.

Oh, and Stiles' fist hurts. A lot.

"I don't- you can't keep doing this," he says. Really more like he hears himself say. "You can't keep making this up as you go along. You need a _plan_ , Derek. You need to figure out what you want and you can't do it alone. You know that, right? You keep screwing it up when you're alone. You keep thinking that you know best and you know _nothing_. You know- you know nothing."

Stiles punches again, this time with intent. He watches swing of his arm, the moment it connects to warm skin. He thinks, in the dim, distant part of him that isn’t so angry everything is red and raw, that he’s never done this before. The worst he’s ever done is shove someone, possibly something too close to an adolescent slap-fight. Stiles has always preferred less physical means of retaliation.

He never knew how _satisfying_ this could be.

Derek takes this punch, too. He looks up at Stiles with his eyes open all the way. The dark, heavy eyebrows normally obscure how pale they are, with that weird, crystalline light they get when he’s wholly human, but right now as Stiles stands above him and pants, Derek looks exposed. Vulnerable, maybe, or accepting.

Stiles doesn't know what it means. He does get that it’s permission, offered through the silence of his body, and right now, that’s enough. He punches again, hard into Derek's stomach, using standing position for leverage as he slams his fist downward in a move he probably stole from video games.

It leaves Stiles on his knees, arm vibrating up to the shoulder. He feels—good, he realizes, watching Derek curl up like a bug, exhaling what on anyone else would be a groan. He feels _good_.

"I know," Derek says after a moment. His voice is wrecked, low, and Stiles doesn't know what the strange openness in it means. He's never heard Derek like this. "I _am_ making this up. I made- "

"You made everything worse!" Stiles shouts. "You made- you made it all _worse_!"

There are tears falling hot on his cheeks, one more thing he doesn’t understand and realizes at this point that he can’t control. He’s shaking and he doesn’t cry in front of people. Not ever. Not at the funeral, not after Gerard (how does Scott _not know_ ) and he won't do it now. He won’t. But there are scalding trails that cover his face and somehow, that's almost as satisfying as the slam of his fist in some meaty part of Derek's body.

"Why?" Stiles asks, panting. "Why?"

Why him, why does his back still hurt and his best friend avoid him; why does the world keep getting worse when he’s only _sixteen_ ; why does everyone feel so far away when this is the time for them (him) to get closer; why is it he feels so much better, clearer with Derek curled up in front of him, red marks on his body echoed by the split on Derek’s knuckle; why does he feel like this and how the hell does he make it stop.

Another tear spills free, blurring his vision. Why won’t it _stop?_

Derek shakes his head, blinking lazily—happily. He looks happy and Stiles has another question he can’t answer. "Don't stop, Stiles. Keep going."

*

Two years after living in New York, Derek found the penance he was looking for. Laura did, really. Of course she did. But she took him to a place where bodies were sweat-slick and strong with power that even a teenaged werewolf could respect. They left him black and blue, bones broken to start the healing and feeling clean of soot for the first time since the fire.

Now Derek looks up at Stiles, trembling, scared, but with iron that makes Derek want to tilt his neck and push his face where Stiles is warmest. He glares with what he thinks is hatred, instead something Derek knows he does not—cannot—understand. An anger Stiles can find no cause for, because Stiles is so _young_. He's a child finding he needs to be a man Derek knows how hard that road is.

So Derek can give him this. He wants to.

Pushing up on his knees, he does press his face where a teenaged boy is always so dangerously ready, rubbing bruised cheeks against the warmth of him.

Then he leans back. "Again," he says, and "please. Don't stop."

Later, he knows, Stiles will be horrified. Confused and disgusted by his actions. Derek knows this part of it too. He knows what to do and this is something else he wants. He thinks of it as Stiles cries with each thunk of his fist, each bruise that Derek will do everything he can to let heal slowly. Like a human. He thinks of how he’ll curl Stiles body into his and tell him that all of this doesn’t mean what Stiles fears. Stiles is not a monster. He is a boy, lonely and scared and hurt, and Derek wants to take it all away. Make it better if only for a moment.

Later still, Derek will show Stiles a different way to feel better.

This is something he knows how to do. Something he is good at.

Stiles’s blows come weaker and less focused. Derek shifts so he’s at a better angle and closes his eyes as Stiles spends himself.

It's peaceful like this.


End file.
